


The worst role player in history

by 07JoeTheBastardo



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Angst, Blood and Injury, Dubious Morality, Existential Crisis, Getting isekaied sucks, Philosophical Thoughts & Questions, Realistic, Spicy, Technoblade gets isekaied, You can't expect quality work from a Samsung phone, canon took a side turn en route and never came back, just like your father
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:35:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27165992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/07JoeTheBastardo/pseuds/07JoeTheBastardo
Summary: Now, he knew for a fact he wasn't staring at a floating, spinning 3D cube of dirt. He rubs his eyes. This is what he gets for falling asleep playing Minecraft.Or getting isekaied into a video game isn't all fun as one would think.
Comments: 14
Kudos: 85





	The worst role player in history

**Author's Note:**

> If asked by the people mentioned here to delete, I will.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dave wonders if this is what his mother envisioned of him.

The bright artificial light from the monitors stabbed his eyes like it was personally taunting him. He needed to finish editing, his channel was drier on content than the Atacama desert. Glancing at the corner of the screen, ignoring the sudden awareness of his tired eyes, and watching the digital clock read innocently _3:45 am._

_That's no bueno._

Dave sighed heavily. He wasn't particularly keen on depriving his body of sleep—not even really sure how his body hasn't shut down two hours ago—but he also knew the chance to cash in money from the video was too great to pass up.

He sighs.

Pushing himself away from the bright white screen, he finally decides that he should get some kind of intervention. What kind of mad man tries to edit crunch three videos? As he stretches, he becomes more aware of the slower, heavier blinks he takes. 

_Yeah. It's time to call it off chief._

His vision is blurry when heavy eyelids finally relent, and the warm haze he's in blinds him briefly— he has to blink a few times, sluggish and heavy, to make the colorful visage finally become clear. He closes his eyes again, not wanting to face his reality of clogged, unedited videos. 

And to his discredit, he must've fallen asleep again, just like that, because the next time he's able to blink open his tired eyes, there's darkness covering the room. He doesn't even remember falling asleep. There’s still a dull stinging in his eyes and with another drawn-out, childish groan, the instinctive pandiculation stretching soon followed.

The first thing Dave becomes aware of is the sensation of his face pressed against something cold and gritty. It was a disconcerting feeling and by far one of his least favorites.

 _Eh?_ It takes a second for the words to actually process through his sleep drawn brain, but when they do, Dave snaps his head up in shock at his surroundings.

 _What the fuck, what the fuck, what the FUCK?!_ Dave wails internally, trying to keep his body from jumping up from the shock.

A 3D cube floats innocently as if it wasn't suddenly manifested in his bedroom. He feels hyper-aware of the heart beating in his chest, like every pump, every stutter, setting his blood pressure higher than the empire state building.

Wait a minute.

He painstakingly holds his breath even as his chest burns for air, before releasing it because _hey_ , he's not an idiot. So he waits, closing his eyes and nails digging into the exposed flesh of his knees, after a few more breathless moments, he opens them again.

This actually happened before, where he actually fell asleep playing Minecraft for a video and ended up dreaming of beating the game in it. It was quite a shock waking up to a monitor still displaying the Minecraft logo. He forgot most of the actual content in the dream, but it was a fun story to joke about. (But we're getting off track here.)

The slow, even draw of air into the lungs, in and in and in, and then holding it. Find that perfect point of equilibrium between the breaths, where everything was still, in quiet balance. And the cycle began once more. In and in, hold. Then, out and ever-more slowly out. He cracks his eyes open, and —

A realization washes over him. 

_This isn't my room._ Dread pools in his stomach— he rather likes to think he knows his bedroom quite well. Just from a distance, and dulled out was his screens, and beyond that is where his bed _should_ be. _Please_ let this be some sort post brain damage experienced from sleep deprivation and that he’s not actually on the ground in the middle of some cave, covered in dirt and alone. 

But! This would make an awesome story to tell his viewers— "I'm just such a gamer that I still play in my sleep." Or something along those lines, his sluggish mind is trekking through the swamps of heavy sleep to come up with a good enough title.

His face was damp and his headaches. He can hear trickling water, and beyond that, silence all around him; deep, full, endless silence. This is one weird-ass dream. The motion sickness almost felt real. 

He was going to be sick.

Dave brought his hand to move his hair out of his eyes, really he should have it cut, before—

 _My hands,_ he thinks in horror lifting them in front of his face; a pair of unfamiliar, scarred hands, stealing the place of his much familiar pale hands that Dave had come to know _explicitly well._ He would know, had them for as long as he could remember. A heavy feeling settled in his stomach.

_Yep, this is one of the weirdest fucking dream ever._

The next thing Dave notices are the noises: they sound strange like they were coming through the other end of a long tunnel. Dave brushed his dread out, while his mind attempted to recall the events that had led to his extended stay in some darkroom.

He knows he should have just hired an editor, and he was editing . . . The next thing he knows was the sight of a very dark, smelly room. 

Aren't you supposed to control your dreams when you're aware of them? Dave squints at what he wants to believe is the ceiling. If he can control this place, does this mean the dark, claustrophobic room is supposed to mirror his subconscious thoughts? Because, while unsurprising, it would still suck.

Dave shoved bits of dirt off himself as he rolled onto his side, pushing off the ground and onto his knees. Dave forced himself to breathe, stabilizing himself from the sudden change in axis, stumbling over his own feet in the darkness. His feet slipped against the slippery, muddy ground as he used his hand on the rock walls next to him to steady him. 

There was a sharp sting on his palm. 

. . . 

In and out.

The slow, even draw of air into the lungs, in and in and in, and then holding it.

Okay. 

He didn't just feel pain. 

"No way,” he vehemently shakes his head, flinching in surprise at the low-pitched tone that leaves his mouth. The uncomfortable feeling of hearing his voice being so unused didn't make much sense, seeing as he went out of his way to talk more recently.

The sting throbs. 

...

Okay, okay, okay. He isn't panicking, not yet, so he'll just _breathe_ and not think of anything else.

Instead, he focuses on his face. Damp and cold, seeping into his clothing like chilled fingers. He could hear trickling water, and beyond that, silence all around him; deep, full, endless silence. 

He's going to be so sick.

The knowledge arrived about the same moment that his aching body convulsed, and his throat was suddenly full; on instinct, he dragged his head to one side and the foulness poured out. He managed one desperate breath before his stomach twisted again, and he was left heaving and gasping in the dirt.

Okay, that's not good, that's not good at all. Did he eat something bad? 

Dave stood on shaky legs, spots teased his vision, growing in size when he was attempting to find his way to his bathroom. Or where the bathroom _should_ be, because when Dave puts his hand out, blindly trusting his muscle memory and grasping air instead of the familiar metal handle. He stops short, confused as he waves his hand out even more, and touching cold concrete (stone? why would there be stone?)

It isn't until he is pressing his palm firmly against the wall that he knows that he's definitely not in his room. He knows that the human mind can do some crazy air gymnastics to trick itself into believing some fantasy. In his case, he really must like living in some dark cave. He should really google what that means on a subconscious level.

Glancing through the darkness, Dave could see, well nothing really, just the shadow impressions of stuff. Despite this, his eyes glided across the room for an answer. He isn't a paranoid man, but nothing in the room seemed to actually belong.

Everything appeared too different. The old chair that should have been on his right looked shorter, his bed itself is smaller somehow, to the closet door which if Dave squints hard enough, he still couldn't make out its outline. Which is worrisome since that's the first thing he sees when he wakes up.

This is where Dave started to freak out. Just a little.

First; he needs to see. Where is the light switch? He spends more than five years in this place, he really should know where the light switch is. His blind hand finally scored gold because as soon as he touched _something_ the room lit up with a bright light.

Rapidly blinking away the white in his vision his eyes opened themselves and took in a world in high contrast. Grey walls, ragged and uneven, served as walls to the small bed in the corner and to the wooden chair and table mirroring the bed. No wonder he couldn't recognize his room, it's because he's not in his room! And the light switch turned out to be some sort of. . . lantern? 

Cautiously he tried to lift his hands, almost giving himself a heart attack when the unfamiliar hand came into view, and even that little movement ushered in more confusion. Did he have a stroke while he was asleep? It would explain a lot. On the same hand, he does at least know that he doesn't actually live in a freaking _cave._

 _Where is he?_ He couldn't breathe. The fire was pressing in on him, burning away any air he managed to suck in. Distantly he could feel his hand touch against the cold, feeling a little too real for comfort. _Really_ , _where the fuck is he?_ Breathing, he quickly discovered, is really great for your lungs. Dave quickly gasps, trying to calm his erratic heartbeat. He's instantly reminded of that time when he was in this high school talent show, despite having no talent whatsoever, that his best friend begged him to help him out. All he did was stand there, helping his friend by holding some statues for a comedic skit.

(But all he remembers are the eyes of hundreds of people, looking at him, measuring his shoes to his pants to his pale face. Judging him. There was an itch in the back of his head, under his skin, everywhere and nowhere. He recalls that after their turn was over, he ran to the bathroom to hurl out his breakfast. It wasn't too pleasant.)

For now, he's counting down from 10 to 0, forcing what little air he could pass the pressure building against his throat. Spots teased his vision, growing in size when he was abruptly released and found himself a little calmer than he was previously.

While he recovered, and the world span, he made an account of himself.

One: He was alive. A good start, all things considered. He went to sleep, and still needs to post the videos. He should have hired an editor.

Two: Dave isn't in his room. After the world shut down, there wasn't much of a big impact on his life. All it meant was that he spent more time with his annoying siblings and playing more Minecraft. He's _extremely_ familiar with his room, and this is not his room. 

Three: He was wearing a loose long-sleeved tunic and trousers, possibly once in a pale color although both of where somewhat dirty and— _wait, is that blood?!_

Four: Oh, yes, let's not forget the fact that _he doesn't know where he is_. He pats his pants, trying to find the familiar shape of his phone, quickly taking a quick scan of the very bare room. He can' see his phone. Do his parents know where he is? Chris? Did anybody even notice? He feels the old fog trying to coat his rationally, so he roughly shoved it aside, taking deep breaths. 

He'll be fine, he went to sleep right? So when they wake up, they'll try to call him and when he doesn't pick up, maybe they'll drive by and check on him. Maybe in, what, a day? Then they'll file a police report because they know he keeps the spare key underneath the golem and then he'll be back and safe. He'll be fine. 

The dark grey walls didn't answer his rapidly degrading thoughts. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alt: Big T here got isekaied. 
> 
> I had this idea when I was walking around in my job and well it stuck I guess. Sorry I wasn't able to get this out sooner! Any ideas or suggestions greatly help! I didn't want to write about his family or any kind of relations too deeply because that'll be weird and don't want to imply anything. but that's hard when I need that for character development and shit. ugh. 
> 
> but yeah, hope you enjoy.

**Author's Note:**

> Leave a comment or I'll drop you


End file.
